


What is Weakness

by sharkie



Series: Across the Stars [3]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-04-30 04:07:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5149694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkie/pseuds/sharkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vette attempts a prank. It goes horribly wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What is Weakness

**Author's Note:**

> *shows up at SWTOR category 11 months late with a fic about caf*

None of the ship's occupants were morning people. It was already annoying starting the day mid-flight on a badly lit ship - but on certain planets, waking to natural sunlight flooding an open-air spaceport hangar was cause for murder. (Sometimes literally, indirectly.)

On Dromund Kaas, Cehirse and Vette had settled into a comfortable morning routine which involved not talking and not making eye contact. After a few disastrous encounters post-Balmorra, Quinn usually stayed away until everyone was sufficiently caffeinated. He'd calculated how long it would take and so on. Nerd.

In Vette's opinion, the only things worth getting up early for were radiation leaks, natural disasters, and an idea for a really, really good prank.

* * *

Life Day had no Twi'lek equivalent; Nok Drayen's gang had traditionally marked festive occasions with raids and arson; Vette hadn't acknowledged her own birthday since she'd been separated from her family. So, no, she wasn't familiar with the non-dread-like flutters of anticipation the night before a big event. But today was different. Clean, harmless fun! Hopefully. Or if Cehirse ended up killing her over this, at least she'd die laughing.

The ever-afraid factotum droid seemed shocked to see her bounding into the kitchen area. It silently prepared breakfast, then scurried to safety. She set up her dastardly trick, ate, and waited. She didn't even need a cup of caf to wake herself up, and it would make the pre-prank jitters worse, but she drank one anyway.

Presently there was a crash coming from Cehirse's room, followed by a series of growls and smaller crashing sounds, which Vette knew signaled his alarm going off.

Minutes later, he emerged. He stumbled over to the counter, to the caf pot and the thermapad. Dishes and mugs clattered. When they'd first met, she had assumed that Cehirse took his caf fiery, bitter, and dark, like his soul. Instead she'd soon learned that he preferred it moderately heated, semi-tart, and resembling grey sludge...like his soul.

"Good moo-oorning," she singsonged, without meaning to.

Cehirse regarded her with passive irritation and said something along the lines of, "You're in a good mood."

Vette's grin widened as he sank into the seat across from her.

The Sith's estimation skills were severely impaired upon waking, so he often dumped too much sugar into his first cup of caf. Eyes half-closed, he grappled ineffectually for the sugar container; Vette slid it into reach.

"Thanks," he muttered.

"No problem." She leaned back in her seat, relieved that he hadn't recognised her helpfulness as out-of-character. The smirk on her face went unnoticed.

Cehirse raised the mug to his lips. He took a big sip - and tensed, eyes bugging.

Well. He was certainly awake _now_.

Vette managed to refrain from quipping "nice caf, huh?" or dissolving into a giggle fit. She didn't know much about art outside Twi'lek culture, yet at some point, she'd mastered comedy.

...So she could tell that something was amiss. She'd imagined three possible outcomes: one was Cehirse spitting his caf onto the table and yelling at her; the second was him calmly, coldly putting his mug down and glowering for an extended period of time. The third - and this was by far the most unlikely, after everything they'd been through, but you never knew with Sith - was him twisting her into a pretzel and shooting her out of the airlock. All of these scenarios involved her bursting into the laughter she'd been fighting. Except...

He was staring, but he hadn't lowered the mug. The urge to snicker dulled somewhat from the lack of reaction, though it didn't die; she held her breath in anticipation.

Then he resumed drinking. Loudly.

"Uh," she began. Cehirse's eyes narrowed into slits, still trained on her. Oh, kark. She _knew_ that look.

Seconds passed, every one more agonizing than the last. Each gulp hammered into Vette's consciousness like a plasma bolt to a hollow durasteel structure. Didn't he remember his respirator? Throat, lungs, it was all connected, right? What was he doing, the kriffing idiot?

 _Glug. Glug._ The sound of rationality rapidly going down the drain.  _Glug._

Surely he'd finished half of the mug by now. "Wow, okay, point taken - "

He persisted with a small snarl, tilting his head back. At least she no longer had to endure the sear of his glare. For several more seconds it seemed that there was no other noise in the lounge - and, in fact, the entire galaxy - besides a nonstop _gluglugglugglug._

Finally, _finally,_ Cehirse slammed his empty mug onto the table and gasped for air. The expression on his face was the same one he sported after particularly grueling battles.

Vette wrinkled her nose in disgust and said, "You either have super defective taste buds, or you just murdered all of 'em."

He declared, _"I win."_

"I watched you voluntarily drink a whole mug of salted caf. I dunno what you think winning is."

"Don't be a sore loser, Vette."

"I'm not - ugh." She twiddled her thumbs as she studied him carefully. "Soooo...what now? You want some water? Maybe a tongue scraper?"

"No," he snapped, forceful enough that the factotum droid's chassis could be heard rattling in terror from the next room over.

Their conversation lapsed. Vette sipped her own caf without relish. Cehirse didn't eat.

She supposed she would get the silent treatment for the next few hours, so it was a surprise that he questioned, "Is this going to be a regular occurrence?"

"What?"

"The failed pranks."

"Pranking you, yeah." The tip of her _tchin_ twitched involuntarily. "Not failing."

"You haven't had the best start," the Sith reminded her, gesturing at the empty mug. She detected the faintest hint of smugness in his voice. She did not appreciate it.

Vette huffed. "Just 'cause I forgot to account for you being mildly insane."

"Maybe I liked the taste."

"Riiiiiiight." 

"Well, I welcome the challenge," he added. His eyes sparked with a glint she'd once feared, but had since identified as akin to _playfulness_. "Although you shouldn't expect your provocations to go unanswered by my own."

She relaxed into her seat again and airily replied, "Good! Bring it."

Satisfied with their new arrangement, Cehirse reached for the salt shaker. He had pumped it twice when he suddenly frowned and paused mid-shake.

"The sugar is in the salt container, isn't it."

"No," Vette lied.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this prompt](http://rpfunstuff.tumblr.com/post/114578134176/imagine-person-a-of-your-otp-switching-the-sugar).


End file.
